


White Day

by azriona



Series: The Next Level 'Verse [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Common Cold, Established Relationship, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Schmoop, White Day, cultural cold remedies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 13:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17981819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: Yuuri gets a cold for White Day. As it turns out, this is not the worst timing in the world.





	White Day

**Author's Note:**

> An outtake from Chapter 36 of The Next Level. You could probably read it as a stand-alone, as long as you know that Kemuri is the stray puppy Victor and Yuuri recently adopted and that while Victor's housekeeper, Marina, and Yuuri don't speak a common language, they understand each other very well anyway.

**White Day**

 

Kemuri is terrible at running with Yuuri. He pulls on his leash and is impossible to deter from chasing the ever-present stray cats. Yuuri trips and stumbles three times before he gives it up as a lost cause. Makkachin, though she normally loves early-morning runs, hasn’t been out since the run-in with the teenagers. Both dogs are always happily snuggled in the bed with Victor when Yuuri is ready to go, and the three of them present such a cuddly, content pile of warmth that Yuuri would feel like a heel for dragging either of them into the still-chilly Saint Petersburg mornings.

Yuuri doesn’t mind very much. It’s Yuuri’s favorite time of day: waking up before the sun rises, closing the windows that Victor leaves open in an attempt to control the temperature of the over-active heaters. The city-supplied automatic warmth won’t be turned off for a few more weeks, though it’s really anyone’s guess when the nameless person throws the switch to turn off the heat for the entire city. Yuuri imagines a very large crank somewhere, operated by an extremely Soviet man in overalls and clenching a cigar in his shiny white teeth. He wears a cap on his head, a mustache not unlike Sasha’s under his nose, and he grinds the cigar out on the concrete floor before slowly closing off the hot water that keeps their apartment far too toasty warm for comfort.

This morning, however, Yuuri’s throat is a scratchy bit of sandpaper, and he winces when he involuntarily swallows. He moves sluggishly, and the brisk wind off the Neva makes him shiver, despite the warm running jacket that Victor found shoved in the back of his closet.

(“Here, Yuuri, this should fit you!”

“Vitya, did you buy this for me?”

“What? No! Of course not, I’ve had it for years.”

Yuuri’s sure he’s lying, but the jacket is warm and soft and the sleeves are far too long. Maybe Victor’s not lying after all.)

This morning, the solitude isn’t such a bad thing. Not today, when Yuuri has _plans_ – at least, in a general sense. In a specific sense, he still has no idea how he’s going to manage to pull it off.

 _It’s not Vitya’s tradition,_ Yuuri reminds himself. _And he surprised me last month, so it’s my turn to surprise him. I should have enough time to get everything ready without him noticing. I think._

Already, however, things are not going to plan. Victor’s favorite coffee shop isn’t open yet, and the flower stand is similarly locked up tight. It isn’t much of a surprise – Yuuri’s curtailed his run somewhat, since he’s already feeling under the weather – but he didn’t think he’d shortened it _that_ much. The prospect of waiting in the cold for them to open doesn’t thrill him either. Yuuri sighs, nearly coughs up his lung, and gives it up as a lost cause.

 _Maybe I can get Pavel to run me out this morning after ice time_ , he thinks, but that would involve trying to explain to Victor why he’s leaving. _Dammit. I should have thought ahead._

“ _Dobroy utra_ , Yuriy Toshievich!” calls out Dmitri Ivanovich as Yuuri pulls up to the front door after an abbreviated run. “[I wish I had your stamina.]” Dmitri pats his stomach, which isn’t rotund by any stretch, but does jiggle a little.

Yuuri smiles at him. “You’re welcome to come with me one morning.” Easy to offer, when he’s sure Dmitri will never take him up on it.

The moment Yuuri steps into the lobby, the warmth of the air is such an abrupt change that he bursts into a coughing fit. It’s so violent, he has to lean against the wall to catch his breath.

Dmitri watches him with a frown. “Raspberry tea,” he says in his broken English when Yuuri’s coughs subside. “You have? I tell Marina.”

“I’m fine,” says Yuuri through the last of the coughing. “Just a cold. I should have worn a mask.”

Dmitri frowns. The Russian flows, as it always does, as if Dmitri thinks pure forcefulness will transcend any language barrier. “[You should stay home and sleep. You’re competing in two weeks, aren’t you? You can’t compete if you can’t stand up.]”

Yuuri’s not entirely sure what Dmitri says – but he has an idea it’s something he doesn’t want to hear. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “Thank you.”

Victor isn’t in the apartment when Yuuri arrives, but the dogs are eating their breakfasts, which means he’s been up and taken them both out and is most likely downstairs on the treadmill. It’s not often Yuuri is faster than he is, and Yuuri leans over to move Kemuri’s bowl back in its place from where the dog has happily pushed it across the floor in an effort to eat the food in it. Kemuri growls in response.

“Stop that,” Yuuri scolds him in Japanese, but without heat – after all, it’s a natural response for a dog who’d lived on the streets until recently. “No one here is going to steal your food, but you need to—”

Yuuri breaks it off to start coughing again. Makkachin lets out a concerned woof as Kemuri dives back into his bowl.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri reassures her. “Just a cough.”

The shower is calling – but first, he digs in the Japan cupboard and pulls out the ingredients for miso soup. It can cook while he’s showering, and a hot bowl sounds heavenly – and as a bonus, it will be good for his cough and his sore throat and his tired muscles.

He begins coughing again as the steam in the shower builds – but the hot water feels so good on his tired muscles that he’s hesitant to leave. The entire bathroom is in a fog by the time he steps out. His throat is still scratchy, and his head feels somewhat cloaked in wool, but at least he’s _warm_.

Even better, when he steps out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, it’s _still_ warm, and best of all, Victor’s back and in the kitchen, talking to the dogs.

“Yuuri! Don’t get dressed!”

Yuuri wants to laugh, but he thinks he might start coughing again if he does. “Do we have that much time?” he calls back, only partially joking. Time enough or not, Victor is very likely to take him up on the offer. Normally Yuuri wouldn’t argue, but his head feels so stuffed now that he can’t imagine any position that might be comfortable or allow him to breathe.

Victor appears at the doorway as Yuuri pulls on a shirt. He’s carrying a tray with a bowl of the miso soup, a folded cloth napkin, two pieces of toast, and a cup of tea, still steaming.

“I told you not to dress,” Victor scolds. He sets the tray down on the dresser. “Back into bed! Coach’s orders.”

There’s a brief moment where Yuuri thinks that perhaps Victor has been reading up on Japanese cultural traditions again – but it disappears the moment Victor fixes a rather stern look at him, which is undoubtedly because of the way he’s started coughing. _Again_.

“I could hear you coughing in the shower,” says Victor pointedly.

Yuuri winces. “It’s just a cold. I’ll wear a face mask.”

“Oh? Do face masks have medicinal properties?” asks Victor innocently. “Will they miraculously keep you from catching pneumonia and missing Worlds entirely?”

Yuuri sighs. “Vitya….”

“No practice today,” says Victor, pushing Yuuri to the bed. “We have two full weeks until Worlds, you can afford one day to knock this cold out of your system. Or do you want to take a full month to get better? I want to stand with you on the podium, Yuuri. You aren’t going to deny that to me, are you? When we’ve been working so hard?”

Yuuri falls onto the bed. “I’ve competed sick before.”

“More importantly,” says Victor, “if you’re sick, you’re going to get _me_ sick. I’m old, Yuuri. Your cold could turn into my pneumonia. I could _die_.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, it’s true!” insists Victor. “I’ve read about it. If you were Yura, I’d say this was part of a plan to beat me.”

“Yura doesn’t want you to die.”

“Of course not, it’s not any fun if he beats me when I’m _dead_.” Victor brings over the tray. “Here, your soup and your toast and your tea. You are not to leave this bed until you are feeling better. Coach’s orders.”

Yuuri desperately wants to respond with a fantastically snarky comment – but he can’t think of a single thing, and besides, the soup smells too good. The heat of it is marvelous on his throat.

“I can have Pavel bring you a few things after he takes me to the rink,” says Victor thoughtfully. “Is there anything you like to do when you’re sick?”

“Skate,” says Yuuri into his soup, mostly because it’s true, partially because it’s the snarkiest thing he can think of saying – and partially because he’s already realizing something.

_If Victor’s going to the rink today – I can set up the surprise without him realizing it._

“There’s video of the other competitors you can watch,” says Victor, entirely unsympathetic. “Ooo! I know, Yuuri, you can watch that American figure skating movie. Maybe get some ideas on our pair skate.”

Yuuri frowns. “Victor, you know that movie isn’t serious, right? It’s got _Will Ferrell and Jon Heder_.”

Victor waves that away. “You never know, there might be something worth trying in it.”

“Sure,” says Yuuri. “If you don’t mind decapitation.”

*

Yuuri has every intention of getting out of the bed as soon as Victor leaves. Except Victor lingers as long as he possibly can, completely regardless of the time or of how Yakov is surely going to shout when he finally shows up. Light is already creeping in the windows when Victor finally closes the front door.

Also, the bed is warm and comfortable, there’s a certain amount of decadence in remaining in bed with the sun rising, and Yuuri’s feeling sleepy. There are two dogs snoozing on his legs, and everyone knows it’s very wrong to move sleeping dogs.

Yuuri goes back to sleep. None of the shops will be open yet, anyway, not for hours. Better to wait until they are before he ventures out.

The sound of the door opening again wakes him up. Kemuri is off his legs like a shot, racing down the hall with his toenails _click click clicking_ on the floor, but he doesn’t bark once, and he only starts the happy squirmy whining when he greets the intruder.

 _Vitya? Oh damn, how long did I sleep_? wonders Yuuri, just before he hears Marina’s voice float down the hall as she coos to Kemuri in Russian. Not a single word of it is comprehensible; Yuuri suspects it’s akin to the type of language one would use with babies.

He _should_ call out to her. Instead, he coughs. It at least gets the point across.

“Ah!” says Marina, appearing at the bedroom door. “Yuriy.”

“ _Dobroy utra, Marina_ ,” says Yuuri. His throat has begun to hurt again, and his voice is scratchy. Marina clucks and comes over to rest the back of her hand on his forehead. “I don’t have a fever, it’s just a cold.”

“[I’ll get you some tea,]” says Marina, as if she’s preparing for battle.

Yuuri waits until he can hear the clanging in the kitchen. It’s still only mid-morning, and Victor is still on the ice with Yakov. Along with conditioning and the deep muscle massage which he cannot skip, there’s at least two hours before there’s even the glimmer of a chance that Victor might surprise him by coming home for lunch.

 _If Dmitri calls me a taxi, he can tell them where I want to go_ , thinks Yuuri. _Two hours should be enough to get everything I need. With a stop at Starbucks for tea, too._

Yuuri is just stepping out of the bedroom when he meets Marina, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea, a folded cloth napkin, a yogurt cup of clear liquid, and a scarf.

Marina’s eyes narrow at him.

“I’m just going to pick up a few things,” says Yuuri, weakly. Marina ignores him and steamrolls him back into the bedroom where she pushes him back on the bed, all with a flurry of Russian that makes him feel about as big as a ladybug.

Marina shoves the tea at him with such a fierce expression that Yuuri doesn’t even look at it before taking a sip.

 _Well, it was a nice life_ , thinks Yuuri desperately, right before the tea hits his taste buds. It’s sweet and fruity-tasting, almost _good_ , really, but so completely not what he’d expected that he nearly chokes on it.

“Uh,” he says, peering into the cup.

“[Raspberry jam],” says Marina. She’s fussing with the cloth napkin, folding it and eyeing his neck as if trying to measure it. When she’s done folding, she picks up the yogurt cup and pours the liquid out onto the napkin, thoroughly soaking it. “Chin. Up,” she says in broken English, and Yuuri dutifully lifts his chin.

“Um,” he says, trying to watch what she’s doing and failing. “What are you doing?”

“Vodka,” says Marina, and slaps the soaked napkin onto Yuuri’s neck. The alcohol is cold against his skin – but strangely it doesn’t feel terrible. Yuuri can smell it, which is strange for vodka, but it’s clear this isn’t any normal vodka. He can’t just smell, he _feels_ the fumes of it with every breath. Marina briskly wraps the scarf around Yuuri’s neck, securing the napkin in place. “Drink. _Drink_!”

Yuuri drinks, watching as Marina carries out the tray, Kemuri at her heels. Makkachin, at least, is content to stay on the bed with Yuuri, and her tail thumps against the blankets even as the rest of her remains at rest.

 _So much for going out this morning,_ he thinks wryly. _I think she might try to tackle me in the hall if I sneak out._

The phone rings.

“Hello, _solnyshko_!” says Victor’s cheery voice. “Don’t say anything if your throat still hurts. Just press a button once to tell me you’re still alive, twice if you’re dead of boredom.”

Yuuri presses a button three times.

“Oh, good, you’re feeling better!”

“Vitya,” whispers Yuuri. “Why did Marina soak a cloth in vodka and put it on my _neck_?”

There’s a pause before Victor bursts into laughter. “She did? I haven’t had anyone do that since I was a child!”

“Vitya!”

“Tell me she didn’t use the good stuff in the freezer, Yuuri.”

“I don’t know! It was in a yogurt cup.”

“Pavel must have picked it up at the pharmacy. I asked him to bring you a few things.”

“I slept after you were gone,” admits Yuuri. “I think she put jam in the tea, too.”

“Oh, raspberry jam, yes. It’s good for colds.”

Yuuri leans back against the pillow. “It’s just a _cold_ , Victor. I’ll be fine.”

“So you will, if you rest. Don’t worry so much, _solnyshko_. One day of rest won’t destroy your chances in Boston—”

There’s a scuffle on Victor’s end of the line. Yuuri thinks he can hear someone shouting, “ _Yeah, you’d be going down anyway!”_

“Is that Yurio?” Yuuri asks. “Does he know that he just said something highly suggestive in English?”

“I could tell him,” says Victor thoughtfully. “Do you think I should? Education is very good. Except he might hit me.”

“Better not then.”

“Everyone says for you to get better,” says Victor, and sure enough, Yuuri can hear Yurio in the background shouting _Not everyone!_ “The only reason Mila isn’t stealing my phone is because I’m in the locker room.”

“As if details like that would stop her,” scoffs Yuuri.

“True. I’ll tell her she’s slipping. I should be home in another hour. What do you want me to pick up for lunch?”

 _Knew it_ , thought Yuuri. “You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to sleep. Try to get better so I can come in tomorrow and protect you from Yurio. You stay at the rink and work on your quad flips. I want you on that podium with me in Boston.”

Victor’s laugh is delighted. “Okay, Yuuri. Whatever my student commands.”

The moment Yuuri hangs up, he calls out for Marina. She appears at the door a moment later, looking concerned as she wipes her hands dry with a kitchen towel.

“I need help,” says Yuuri. “Can you help me with a surprise for Victor?”

Marina’s eyes shine.

*

“Vitya!” Yakov’s voice carries down the hallway, echoing off the tiles and the concrete. It’d be easy to ignore him – Victor’s perfected the art of it over the last decade. Especially since Pavel is undoubtedly waiting to take Victor home, and _home_ includes Yuuri, who has hopefully been resting in bed and not worrying about missing a day of practice two weeks before Worlds.

Knowing Yuuri, he’s likely done a bit of both, with slightly more emphasis on the second. Victor resisted the urge to go home for lunch, ended up texting him shortly afterwards, and when Yuuri said he was taking another nap, Victor refrained from texting.

For ten minutes. Yuuri was perfectly capable of turning off his ringer. Which he’d undoubtedly done, since he hasn’t responded since. Victor’s trying not to imagine scenarios where Yuuri is dying on the bathroom floor, or splayed out in the kitchen with a broken leg and a cup of spilled tea. He keeps replaying their parting words to each other, Yuuri gasping for breath as he dies tragically and beautifully in Victor’s arms, moments after Victor finds him. The fading sunlight streams in the windows, giving Victor’s hair a glow as the dogs sadly look on.

“ _Vitya! Pay attention when I shout at you!_ ” Yakov catches up to him, his face pink with exertion. It’s a terrible look on him.

Victor’s probably having too much fun imagining deathbed confessions of undying love, anyway. Death-floor. Whatever.

“Oh, hello, Yakov, I couldn’t hear you shouting,” he says cheerfully, because there’s a good chance it’ll turn Yakov’s pink face purple, which is always entertaining. “Did I forget something?”

“Of course not, you idiot,” growls Yakov, looking vaguely more annoyed. “Is Katsuki coming back tomorrow?”

It’s only a little pang of possessiveness – after all, why would _Yakov_ be asking after _Yuuri_? Victor tries to shake it off. “Yakov! Are you saying you love him more than you love me?”

“Katsuki doesn’t talk back to me. And he’s willing to practice his free skate without having to lock the rink doors,” snaps Yakov.

Ah. Possessiveness turns rapidly to irritation. “I ran through my free skate four times today.”

“And you should run it four more tomorrow,” says Yakov pointedly. “But you won’t, if Katsuki is here. I know you, Vitya. I probably know you better than you know yourself. It’s ridiculous, this obsession you have with not running your free skate while Yuuri is here. You don’t see anyone else keeping their skates so secret! What are you trying to prove, anyway?”

“Nothing,” says Victor. “I’m just… not ready to show him yet.”

Yakov sighs. “Vitya…”

“You’re the one who told me to skate my fears, Yakov,” Victor reminds him. “You can’t say you’re _surprised_ that maybe I don’t want to show them yet.”

“He’s going to see them at Worlds. Or are you going to convince him to stay at home sick for those, too?”

“It wouldn’t work. We have a television and besides, he knows how to hack into about ten different streaming websites.”

Yakov groans. “ _Vitya_.”

“I just need more time. When it’s ready, I’ll show him.”

“You need more time on the ice with it, if you want it ready in two weeks for Worlds.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Victor, ever stubborn.

Yakov snorts, clearly not believing it. “I know you so well. But I have never understood you. Are you coddling him, letting him stay at home with a head cold, when you’ve competed twice as sick before? Or did you see the opportunity to take a day of practice without him to distract you from concentrating on your _own_ skate? It makes me wonder, Vitya – who do you want to win gold in Boston, anyway?”

The idea that Victor might have taken advantage of Yuuri’s head cold to get a slight edge on the ice…

“I’m not coddling him,” says Victor coolly. “But I know Yuuri. He caught a summer cold in June, and it was a _month_ before he was better, because he insisted on working through it. A _month_ , Yakov. Just because I’ve competed with a headcold doesn’t mean I want _him_ to do it.”

“I’m not saying you should _force_ him to compete with a headcold. But you can at least let _him_ decide whether or not it’s more important that he practice or that he rest. Or don’t you think Katsuki is capable of making these decisions on his own? He’s a grown man. He’s done very well without you until now.”

Which is _true_ , but…

_Just because he did well without me doesn’t mean he can’t do better with me._

He frowned. “He didn’t argue. So I’d say he agreed with me.”

“Hmph.” Yakov starts buttoning his coat. “Or he just didn’t _want_ to argue. Maybe you’ve noticed, sometimes there’s no arguing with you, Vitya. And don’t say it’s because you’re always right. You’re _not_. Or do I have to remind you about the purple feathered costume—”

“ _Yakov_ ,” groans Victor, almost laughing. “I was _seventeen_. You’re not ever going to let me forget it, are you?”

Yakov smiles. _Almost_. His lips quirk a bit, which is as good as a wide-open grin. “Not until you have a student as impossible as you were to me.”

“I wasn’t impossible,” says Victor. “I was _challenging_.”

Yakov snorts. “If Katsuki stays home tomorrow again, you’re going to concentrate on your free skate exclusively. No exceptions. If he comes in – then you’ll be working twice as hard in whatever time I can scrabble together. I wonder – do you even know what you’re doing, Vitya? Or is this another case of purple feathers, where you’re doing things without thinking of the long-term consequences?”

“As I recall, the only consequence of purple feathers was a skin rash,” says Victor. “And that went away with some ointment.”

“Not everything can be fixed with ointment,” says Yakov. “And maybe you should consider what’s at stake in Boston before you throw away a day’s practice so lightly. For either of you.”

_Yakov is talking like a gold medal is the end-all be-all of everything. He’s wrong, if he thinks that’s all that Yuuri and I have together. We’re so much more than who wins which competition – and I’ll love Yuuri no matter what his final standings are in Boston – or mine._

“It’s just one day of practice,” Victor calls after Yakov. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Yakov’s expression is dark, almost shocked, when he looks at Victor over his shoulder. “You think _practice_ is what’s at stake.”

Victor has no idea when he lost the thread of the conversation. “I think gold medals are. You always say – more practice leads to more gold medals. Isn’t that what you want, Yakov? Me to win gold in Boston? How much more of a Living Legend could I be, if I took nearly a year off and still came back to win it all?”

“ _Gold medals_ ,” scoffs Yakov, and steps outside into the cool evening air.

It’s still light outside, but it won’t be for much longer. It still feels like winter – but it’s winter with a bit of warmth to it. Victor’s scarf is loose around his throat, and the fresh air feels colder and crisper than it does in the rink. He can smell the salt from the sea, the exhaust fumes from nearby traffic, and the wet damp that says it was raining recently – _rain_ , and not snow. That’s the biggest sign of approaching spring of all.

“I love this time of year,” says Victor cheerfully.

“You used to hate it,” Yakov reminds him.

“Everything brand-new, starting over again fresh.”

“You’d cry when the snow melted, because it meant Worlds was approaching, and you’d never be able to skate your current programs again.”

 “It’s new beginnings, Yakov! Think of all the possibilities that await.”

“The end of a season, the long months of summer with no competition,” continues Yakov. “Only training and patched-together ice shows and skating academies. You hated it. All you ever wanted was center ice, with the entire world holding its breath for your opening jumps. Or have you forgotten?”

“It’d be nice to be married in the spring,” says Victor, breathing in the air deep. “I’ll have to ask Yuuri.”

“Tricky prospect if you win gold in Boston,” says Yakov bitingly.

“Japanese nationals counts,” says Victor. “Would you like to give me away, Yakov?”

“Didn’t I already?” grumbles Yakov.

“You’d hate Hasetsu, Yakov,” continues Victor cheerfully. “Everyone is very friendly. There are three little girls who you really ought to meet.”

“Hmph!” Yakov trots down the stairs, to where Pavel is already waiting in the car. “Go home, Vitya! I’ve had enough heartburn for the day.”

Victor doesn’t move right away; the air won’t smell nearly as sweet in the car, and he’s enjoying the feel of the breeze on his throat. It’s exactly the kind of day he likes best: the faintest glimmer of winter being over. The approach of the end of the season, and a long summer of rest.

 _I did love spring first_ , he thinks, _when I was very young. And then I hated it, for all the reasons Yakov said. And then it was a relief, when I was so tired that I didn’t know how to continue._

_Yuuri makes me love it again._

When Victor opens the car door, there’s three roses waiting for him on the seat: two red, one white. Victor grins, delighted, and pulls out his cell phone as Pavel pulls into traffic.

 **Victor to Yuuri  
               **Yuuri! I have your roses. I’m coming home. Do you want me to pick up dinner?

 **Yuuri to Victor  
               **Pavel knows where he’s going. All you have to do is give them your name. :)

 **Victor to Yuuri**  
               You’re awake! How do you feel?

 **Yuuri to Victor**  
               Lonely. Don’t take too long. ::heart emoji::

The trip isn’t very long, and much to Victor’s delighted surprise, it doesn’t end at Duo. Victor laughs when he sees the restaurant, already texting to Yuuri as he walks through the doors. There’s a brief moment, and then the resulting shouts surprise him so much that he nearly drops the phone.

“Nikiforov-san!” Every single person behind the bar seems to be grinning at him; half the customers twist in their seats to get a glimpse, before turning back to their meals. Victor Nikiforov sightings aren’t as common as they were before, but Victor’s fairly sure the shine is still somewhat dulled. The restaurant feels exactly like Victor’s just walked into the ramen shop he’d frequented the most in Hasetsu. Even the decorations on the wall are similar, if a bit more weathered.

“ _Konichiwa_ ,” says Victor cheerfully to the maître d’. “I think I’m picking up dinner?”

The maître d’s smile is wide and bright. “Yes! We were so excited to receive Katsuki-san’s order this afternoon. I should have expected it today, though – but I wasn’t sure how it would work, honestly.”

“Okay,” says Victor, keeping the smile on his face even if he has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s very good at that, at least.

“We can’t wait for Worlds, Nikiforov-san. Everyone will be rooting for both of you! Maybe a _little_ more for Katsuki-san, though. I hope that’s okay.”

Victor leans in and whispers. “I’m rooting for him a little more, too.”

The girl giggles as the bag of food arrives from the kitchen. “You’re so funny! Please, tell Katsuki-san that we hope everything is to his liking, and that we would be honored to have him in our restaurant.”

“I will,” Victor assures her.

The food smells delicious, a familiar blend of soy and garlic. Victor can’t help sneak a peek inside the bag, but everything is wrapped up tight and the only lettering he can see is in katakana and kanji that he can’t read without a dictionary. He chuckles and closes the bag so the food has hope of staying warm.

When he gets out of the car at home, the roses in his fist and the food tucked under his arm, Dmitri greets him at the door with another set of three roses – two white and one red.

“Dmitri!” says Victor, pleased.

“Curious custom,” says Dmitri. “But if I came home bearing flowers and chocolates for no reason at all, my wife would think I’m having an affair.”

Victor laughs. “You could try it anyway.”

“And risk being beaten over the head?” Dmitri scoffs.

“Yuuri didn’t leave the apartment today, did he?”

“Haven’t seen him since this morning. But Marina was in and out several times.”

“He’s planning something,” agrees Victor.

Dmitri gives him a studious eye. “And you haven’t figured out what?”

“Well.” Victor lifts the bag of food. “Dinner.”

Dmitri shakes his head. “You need to do more research.”

 _But what am I supposed to research?_ wonders Victor as the elevator takes him up. _What it means when your fiancé gives you flowers when he’s sick? He’s just being my own sweet Yuuri, that’s all. And of course he’d want Japanese food; I’d want Russian food if I weren’t feeling well._

The apartment is dark when Victor opens the door, or at least it seems that way until Victor notices the flickering light from the candles that are strewn around the room. Low fat candles, tall white tapers, plastic IKEA candles that operate by battery… the room glows yellow and orange, the light bouncing off the white walls and the white tablecloth on the table. Even the couch has a white sheet over it, tucked into the corners and folded neatly around the cushions. Outside the window, the view of the pink-and-purple sunset makes the entire room look mystical and romantic and lovely.

Yuuri and the dogs are nowhere to be seen, but the table is set for two, with cloth napkins folded into hearts resting on their plates. There’s even an empty vase in the center of the table – much too big for Victor’s six roses, but that’s all right.

Victor’s quick to unpack the food. There’s empty bowls and plates on the counter – clearly he’s expected to use them, which he does. He rinses the rose stems, cuts them at an angle exactly like his mother taught him, and puts them in the vase with some cool water and the packet of rose food he finds waiting on the counter.

Once the table is set, Victor waits – but Yuuri doesn’t appear.

Victor thinks for a moment, and then goes to turn on his iPod, queuing up an instrumental playlist. As soon as the music fills the air, he hears the tell-tale click of the bedroom door opening.

“I should have come up with a romantic playlist,” says Victor cheerfully before he turns around, because anticipation is half the fun of a surprise. “We might end up listening to Night on Bald Mountain next.”

“Fair warning,” agrees Yuuri, amused.

Victor turns around, and loses his breath.

The first thing he sees is the armful of roses Yuuri is holding. Almost half of them are white – the rest are a mix of red and pink and yellow. Yuuri’s blush is visible even in the dim light, and the trouble he clearly has meeting Victor’s eyes is the most adorable thing Victor thinks he’s seen in ages.

“Wow,” breathes Victor. “Are those all for me?”

Yuuri clears his throat. “Marina refused to get me an even dozen. And she wouldn’t get me two, either, so I had to get three. Plus one single rose, for some reason.”

“Even numbers are bad luck,” explains Victor. “Thirty-seven roses. _Wow_ , Yuuri!”

“Not all of them are white,” says Yuuri, a bit worried. “But they gave me as many white as they could.”

“I love them,” says Victor, taking the roses from him. “I’ll go put them with the rest. But why white? I don’t know my flower colors very well.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen a little. “I thought you might not have known. It’s White Day.”

“I thought it was the Ides of March?”

“That’s tomorrow.” Yuuri pads after him into the kitchen. “You brought me chocolate on Valentine’s Day last month. So White Day is when I’m meant to give you chocolate in turn. Uh – usually it’s the woman who gives chocolate to her boyfriend or lover or husband on Valentine’s Day, and then he gives her white chocolate on March 14, but—”

Victor bursts into laughter. “Yuuri! That makes you the man of the family.”

Yuuri looks nearly as pink as the sunset behind them. “Well,” he says, “if that’s how you want to handle the sleeping arrangements after dinner.”

Victor leans over and kisses his nose. “Did you spend the whole day planning this?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage it. And then this morning—”

“I made you stay home,” realizes Victor.

Yuuri nods. “Marina helped, and Irina picked up a few things for me when she walked the dogs.”

“Where are they?”

“Asleep in the bedroom.” Yuuri bites his lip a little, as if he’s worrying about something. “It was a long walk. I think Makkachin was exhausted, she didn’t even want to eat her dinner when she came home.”

“Poor girl.”

Yuuri doesn’t look much appeased. Victor sets the flowers down and wraps his arms around him. “You didn’t have to do all of this. You were meant to be resting, _solnyshko_.”

“I know. I did.” Yuuri rests his head on Victor’s shoulder. “I don’t usually stay at home for head colds. They’re just head colds. At home I wouldn’t skip practice unless I was throwing up.”

“Of course you wouldn’t go if you were throwing up. Think of the mess on the ice,” says Victor. Yuuri snorts softly. “I don’t know how you can expect to get better if you don’t rest, though. You’re meant to be competing in two weeks.”

Yuuri shrugs. “Just hope it’s not a long one, that’s all.”

“I hope you don’t give it to me,” says Victor.

Yuuri’s blink is wide and innocent. “But I thought that’s what you wanted. Since I’m the _man_ of the family and all.”

 _Deceptively_ innocent. Victor loves it.

“I love you,” he says, dropping a kiss on Yuuri’s lips.

“I love you, too,” says Yuuri, reaching up for another kiss.

_Grrrrrrrwwwwwwwlllllll._

Yuuri freezes, lips millimeters from Victor’s.

“Yuuri,” says Victor, “was that your stomach, or Kemuri?”

“Can we pretend it was Kemuri?” asks Yuuri, almost desperately, just as he begins to cough.

“Dinner,” decides Victor. “And then more raspberry tea. Did Marina leave any of that vodka from this morning?”

“I am never getting sick in Russia again,” says Yuuri mournfully.


End file.
